


Memories More Perfect

by nishizono



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Banter, Friendship, Gun Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-05-22 05:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6067732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishizono/pseuds/nishizono
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur dies on a beautiful spring morning in Madrid. </p><p>The people who were hired to kill him have strung wires through the embassy's ventilation system and packed the walls with explosives. Even the building's security team doesn't notice anything amiss, so there's no way Arthur could know that the second he steps foot inside the embassy, someone will press a button and blow the place to smithereens.</p><p>Arthur comes back to life on a snowy winter night in London.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur dies on a beautiful spring morning in Madrid. 

The people who were hired to kill him have strung wires through the embassy's ventilation system and packed the walls with explosives. Even the building's security team doesn't notice anything amiss, so there's no way Arthur could know that the second he steps foot inside the embassy, someone will press a button and blow the place to smithereens.

 

Arthur comes back to life on a snowy winter night in London.

After nine months of radio silence between him and the rest of the world, he's ready to come out of hiding. He's tracked down the men who tried to kill him and repaid the favor in kind, but he still doesn't know who hired them. They'd refused to talk, right up to the end. 

It takes him less than a week to find the others. He tells himself all sorts of lies about why he does it — he needs their help, needs their contacts — but he could get that information anywhere. When it comes down to it, the real reason Arthur tracks them down is because he feels connected to them in a way he hasn't felt since the first time he shared a dream. They're under his skin now, a constant itch for companionship that he can't seem to scratch elsewhere.

Cobb is in California, reveling in fatherhood and the trappings of normalcy. Arthur thinks about calling to say hi, but he knows he never will. Cobb is retired and happy; Arthur is thirty and restless. They've outgrown each other. 

Ariadne is still enrolled at the University of Paris, but she's not on campus for the winter break. She's in London with Yusuf and Eames. Word has it the three of them are working for Saito, doing research, although no one’s sure what kind. Arthur books himself a ticket on the next flight to England.

Saito has the team set up in a penthouse suite, which is a far cry from Dom's musty warehouses and abandoned apartment buildings. Arthur makes it past the front desk without being stopped — people rarely question a man wearing a three piece suit and a scowl — and he rides the elevator up to the top floor. He picks the lock to the penthouse, then strides into the room as if he's always been there.

Ariadne is in his arms before Arthur can process what's happening. She alternates between clinging to his jacket and punching him in the chest so hard it knocks the wind out of him. Yusuf bursts into the room a few seconds later and flings his arms around both of them. Saito appears, seemingly from nowhere, and stares at Arthur with stoic relief. 

Eames isn't there. 

Arthur is profoundly disappointed.

 

Arthur tells Yusuf and Ariadne everything: how he’d gone to the embassy as part of what should have been an easy job; his luck at having been waiting alone in a corner office during the bombing, and how he’d escaped through a window; the ensuing nine months of chasing one dead end after another. He’s been over it in his head so many times that telling the story out loud feels no more exciting than giving a weather report, and there’s nothing he can think of for anyone to want to kill him badly enough to also kill a hundred innocent bystanders. 

When they’re done talking about his miraculous resurrection, Arthur finally asks, “Where’s Eames?”

Ariadne and Yusuf go unnaturally still, and Arthur's stomach sinks. In their line of work, a reaction like that can only mean a handful of things, and none of them are good. His reaction must show on his face because Ariadne's eyes go wide, and she leans over to put a reassuring hand on his arm.

“No, no, it's not like that! God, no, Eames is fine. He's at the movies. He just — ” She glances at Yusuf, then frowns and says, “Arthur, this job we're doing right now...”

There's a long pause before Yusuf clears his throat and looks down at the floor. “We were testing an experimental compound,” he says. He looks older than Arthur remembers. There's a slump to his shoulders that had never been there before, like guilt is weighing down on him so heavy he can hardly lift his head. “It was a modification of the compound we used for the Fischer job, just a tweak to the sedative that would keep the dream stable enough for three levels without risking limbo.” 

“We tested it a couple times, just me and Yusuf,” says Ariadne. “It was fine for two levels, but we wanted to do one more, just to be sure, so all four of us went under. Yusuf wanted to go all the way down with someone so he could see if there were any side effects on the third level.” 

Yusuf sighs. “I don't know what happened, Arthur. Maybe we were under for too long, or — I don't know. We haven't figured it out yet. Mr. Eames was fine when we were dreaming, but when we came back up, he'd lost part of his memory.”

“Lost part of his memory,” repeats Arthur, like saying it out loud will somehow quell his growing anxiety. “What part, exactly?”

Ariadne and Yusuf share another look. Finally, Ariadne sighs and says, slowly like she has to force the words out, “Eames doesn't remember you.”

Arthur turns the words over in his head, trying to make sense of them. _Eames doesn't remember you_. For a second, he thinks she must be joking with him, but none of her usual tells are there — no twitching of her bottom lip, no narrowing of her eyes while she tries not to laugh. Ariadne looks as serious as he's ever seen her, which is saying something since Ariadne is, at the heart of it all, one of the most serious girls he's ever met.

“He knows about you, though,” says Ariadne. “We've shown him pictures and told him stories, tried to jog his memory, you know? It didn't work, but at least he knows who you are. He asks about you a lot.”

“I see,” says Arthur. He's not sure he believes it. He's not sure he _can_ believe it, because the implications are just... he doesn't know what to think. He puts a hand in his pocket, and Ariadne looks away, but Arthur doesn't need to check his totem. He knows how he got there; he knows this isn't a dream, no matter how much he might wish it was. After a few minutes, he nods and says, “Tell me everything.”

 

Arthur has never been a drinking man, but he goes to the hotel bar that night and finishes half a bottle of scotch before Saito’s security men escort him to his room.


	2. Chapter 2

There's a desk set up for Arthur when he gets to the penthouse the next morning, and sitting in the dead center of it is a still-hot cup of coffee. Arthur stares at it, not breathing until a quiet voice behind him says, “They told me I used to bring you coffee.”

Arthur spins around, and Eames is right behind him -- Eames with his broad shoulders and his purple shirt, hands in his pockets and head tipped off to one side. It's clear right away that he doesn't know Arthur. He's smiling, but it's nothing like the smirk he'd give Arthur right before flicking a pen cap at him. It's Eames all right, but it's Eames the stranger. It's Eames in Cairo on the first day they met, baking under the desert sun and staring at each other while Dom flirted with Mal beside them. It's ten years of rivalry, ten years of friendship, ten years of laughter and shouting gone in a handful of seconds, the blink of an eye. 

“I'm sorry.” Eames frowns. “I just thought we should start off with something familiar.”

“It's fine,” says Arthur, but it's not. He scans Eames' face, looking for a glimmer of recognition, of mischief, of _anything_. There's nothing.

They stand in awkward silence for awhile until Ariadne and Yusuf arrive. Yusuf takes one look at them and scurries off into one of the adjoining rooms, but Ariadne dumps her bag in a chair and immediately comes over to rest her hand on Eames' elbow.

"Good morning," she says, glancing back and forth between them.

Eames flashes her the kind of grin he used to give Arthur, and says, "Good morning, sugarplum."

Ariadne rolls her eyes, then darts a glance at Arthur. "So you guys have met, then?"

"Yes, we have," says Eames, smiling at Arthur.

Arthur's jaw clenches. It's all so cordial, like it's normal for him to be introducing himself to a man he's known for almost ten years. But he holds his tongue, shoves his hands into his pockets, and nods.

Ariadne nods back, then shifts from foot to foot before clearing her throat and saying, "Okay uhm, then I guess I'll go see what Yusuf is up to."

Arthur isn't sure whether to feel relieved or betrayed when she scurries off, leaving him to once again stand there in silence with Eames, who's eying him with a frown. He wonders what Eames is thinking, whether he's looking for memories or just trying to get a read. Arthur is used to Eames watching him, but not like this.

"This must be strange for you," says Eames. He sounds apologetic, and it makes Arthur want to punch him, because in all the years they've known each other, Eames has never apologized for anything. "Is there anything I can do to make this less uncomfortable?"

 _Insult me,_ thinks Arthur. _Drop a paperclip in my coffee. Call me darling. Steal my lunch._ What he actually says is, "No, but thank you. It will just take time."

"Well, I'm sure we'll get to know each other again in no time at all," says Eames, then as if sensing that Arthur wants the conversation to be over, he tips his chin and goes to sit at what Arthur assumes is his desk. Everything about him is the same-- his lazy sprawl, the tap of his fingers against the side of his coffee cup, the way he chews his bottom lip while he's thinking-- but he's not looking at Arthur, and when he does glance up, the polite distance in his smile cuts deeper than anything he's ever said or done.

Arthur turns away and sorts through the files someone has left for him to review. And it's funny, he thinks: most people can feel it when someone's staring at them, but in his case, he can feel it when someone's _not_.

~*~*~

Despite everything on his mind, Arthur loses himself in work, pausing only long enough to say good morning to Saito when he arrives. There's a lot to catch up on: Yusuf's notes on the compound, Ariadne's notes on its effects, and all the research they'd done after they'd realized what had happened. Arthur has all the info at his fingertips, but he can't find the answers, and by the time Saito calls them all into a meeting, he's feeling twitchy and irritable.

They drag their chairs into a semi-circle around Ariadne's little work table. Instead of plopping down next to Arthur the way he used to, Eames chooses a spot beside Yusuf. Arthur knows it's not supposed to be an insult, but it still makes him bristle.

Eames seems to notice, too, because he pauses, lowered halfway into his chair, and looks at Arthur. “Oh, should I--?”

Arthur usually admires Eames for being so perceptive, but this is one case in which he wishes Eames would just be goddamn oblivious for once. He tries to smile, but he's sure it comes out tense. “No, it's fine.”

“Sure?”

Arthur nods, not because it's fine but because he can't stand watching Eames act this way, hesitant and worried. He can't stand thinking that in the time he's been away, he's gone from being 'darling' and 'sweetheart' to being just another face in the sea of people who inhabit Eames' life (and he wonders, with a sick lurching of his stomach, if he was really ever special in the first place).

“It would seem,” says Saito once everyone has settled, “that we now have two jobs to complete.”

Arthur frowns, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Ariadne do the same. It's a shame that a relationship between them never would've worked, he thinks. They're always on the same wavelength.

“Of course restoring Mr. Eames' memory is of the utmost importance,” says Saito. “But Arthur, you have not found the men who tried to kill you, is that correct?”

Arthur nods, but he's also quick to say, “I don't want to involve anyone else, though. There's no reason to make anyone here a target.”

Saito gives Arthur a tight-lipped, boardroom smile. “Ah, but you have already made us targets by coming here, have you not?”

“That wasn't my intention,” says Arthur with a stab of guilt. The thought had occurred to him, of course-- he was a point man; his job was to consider all the possibilities-- but after so much time had passed and nothing had happened to the others, Arthur had assumed that his would-be killers only had eyes for him.

“Perhaps not, but it is a fact all the same,” says Saito. “Therefore, it would be prudent for us to help you, since our lives are now also at stake.”

Arthur is about to reply, but Saito gives him a _look_ , and it wouldn't take a genius to understand what he's trying to say: they would help him either way, and it's best if he just accepts their assistance gracefully because he's going to get it whether he likes it or not. Of course, Saito won't just come right out and say so, and it reminds Arthur of the way his father used to thump him on the back and say 'good job, sport' instead of 'I love you'.

They spend the rest of the meeting talking about who should be working on what. Saito suggests that he, Ariadne, and Yusuf should take over trying to find Arthur's would-be killer while Arthur concentrates on Eames. 

“Sometimes,” he tells him, “it is easier for others to see things that we subconsciously choose to overlook.”

Arthur isn't convinced, but he takes notes anyway and tries not to stare at Eames. He wishes Eames would do something, make a crack about his 'pretentious' notebook or even just glance in his direction. Eames doesn't say a word, though, and other than nodding a few times when Arthur speaks, he doesn't even acknowledge Arthur's existence.

Which is why, when the meeting is over, Arthur corners him on the balcony where Eames is enjoying a cigarette. It's freezing outside, but Eames is out there without a jacket, and Arthur is about to chide him to put on a coat before he catches himself and snaps, “Is there a reason you're ignoring me?”

The old Eames ( _Arthur's_ Eames) would have smirked and called Arthur 'sweetheart', maybe teased him a little about being jealous of his attention. This Eames just looks surprised. He frowns and turns toward Arthur with his free hand in his pocket. “I haven't been ignoring you.”

“Yes, you have,” says Arthur. He knows he's being unfair. Eames has been nothing but polite to him, and it's obvious from the expression on his face that he hadn't meant to insult Arthur. But that's the problem: this Eames is too polite, too willing to try and keep the peace. There's no fire to him.

“Arthur,” says Eames, and since when is he the reasonable one? “I know this must be hard for you.”

 _You have no idea,_ Arthur wants to say. _You have no idea what it's like to come back from the dead and find out that you were so unimportant to someone that they've forgotten all about you_. And he knows that's not fair, either. He knows it's not Eames' fault, and that he shouldn't take it personally. But fuck, it hurts.

“What can I do to make this easier?” asks Eames. He cocks his head and studies Arthur in that way he has, like he can see right through people, right down to the core of them. That's what makes him so good at his job. Forging isn't just about impersonating a voice or appropriating a mannerism; Eames understands people in ways Arthur can't, because he can always find the reasons _why_ people do the things they do. And it's an agony, this time, to see that look of understanding flash on Eames' face, to watch the way his eyes widen just a little and the way the corners of his lips twitch downward when he says, “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” says Arthur. He'd really like to know what Eames just saw on his face, but he doesn't quite have the courage to ask, so he stays quiet.

There's a long silence. It really is freezing outside, and the clouds look like they're about to dump another layer of snow on the city, so after a few minutes have passed and neither of them have spoken, Arthur turns to go back inside.

“Arthur, wait.”

Arthur pauses in the doorway and glances back at Eames, silently pleading with him not to apologize again.

Eames looks uncertain. His brows draw together, and he flicks his thumbnail against the filter of his cigarette. Then he smiles a little, one of those charming, sail-a-thousand-ships, break-a-thousand-hearts smiles, and says, “Have a drink with me when we're done for the day. I'd really like to get to know you again.”

It's on the tip of Arthur's tongue to tell Eames to fuck off, but it's a reflex. Eames has made this proposition a hundred times in the years they've known each other, but he's never meant it before. This time, though, he does. Arthur tips his head, considers for a moment, then says, “All right.”

He's not sure it's a good idea, not when Eames doesn't remember him or their sometimes tumultuous history. It feels like he's taking advantage. But his answer makes Eames smile, bright and happy like a little kid, and Arthur thinks hell, how much damage could a couple of drinks do?

~*~*~

“I didn't actually say that, did I?”

Arthur nods and takes another sip of his beer. “Then, when I refused to show you the pictures, you spent the next four weeks tracking them down on your own. _Four weeks_ , Eames. By the time you were finished, my mother and half my family thought you were an FBI agent and I was locked away in a Turkish prison.”

“I've done worse.” Eames shrugs. There's a hint of mischief on his face, and it's almost like they know each other again.

They're down in the hotel bar, both of them too tired to find somewhere else to drink. It's finally started snowing, and they're sitting near a window where they can watch the heavy flakes drift downward and cover the freshly-plowed streets. Eames is working on his first glass of scotch-- never much of a drinker, Eames, contrary to popular belief-- but Arthur is on his third beer. They've been there for two hours, meandering down memory lane together, which has been, for Arthur, an exercise in leading the blind. It had been awkward at first, describing events to someone who'd been there when they happened, but good alcohol and good company had loosened Arthur's nerves. He can't remember the last time he and Eames just _talked_. He's not sure they ever have, until now.

“Four weeks? Really?” says Eames. He's staring into space and toying with his glass, and that's one of the things Arthur has always like about him, how he can give so much thought to the smallest of things. After a long, surprisingly comfortable silence, Eames looks at Arthur again and says, “That's a long time to go after someone's old school photos, don't you think?”

“You're obsessive.” Arthur shrugs. “You latch onto things sometimes and it's impossible to make you stop until you've gotten whatever you're after.”

He doesn't like the way Eames is looking at him, like Eames knows something he doesn't, which isn't really possible anyway. After all, Arthur's not the one who's forgotten anything. Suddenly, Arthur's beer doesn't taste as good as it had just a minute ago, and he puts it down on the table with a clunk.

“You know, Arthur,” says Eames, “I might've forgotten you, but I haven't forgotten myself, and as far as I know, I only turn obsessive over things that really matter.”

“Why would my old school pictures matter?” 

“Maybe they don't in the grand scheme of things, but they were obviously important to me.”

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that-- doesn't want to think about all the ways Eames used to tease him, poking and prying until he snapped. He's not even sure they should be talking about this, because the last thing he wants is for him and Eames to build a friendship that might come toppling down the second Eames regains his memory.

“Tell me another story,” says Eames, and from the tone of his voice, it's obvious he's trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur glances up and finds Eames smiling at him, all boyish English charm, and he sighs. He knows they should call it a night, go upstairs and get some sleep so they can wake up the next morning and keep working, but on the other hand, he thinks a man's got a right to know his own past. “All right,” he says, “one more. Do you want to know about Cambodia or the Ukraine?”

“Cambodia, please,” says Eames, then leans in and asks in a conspiratorial whisper, “Tell me the truth: were we pirates?”

“No, we weren't pirates.”

Eames looks disappointed. “Are there any pirates in the story at all?”

“No, Eames, there were no pirates.” Arthur chuckles. Damn Eames and his ability to make him smile, even when he's feeling rotten.

“Pity. Best you tell me about Ukraine, then.”


End file.
